Page 43 of Fauxmance in the City

“That’s not surprising,” Natalie says.

My hands pauses on the zipper I’m yanking down the bag. “What do you mean?”

“You’re protecting yourself. It’s what you do.”

The office is empty, so I strip out of my silk top and lift out several turtlenecks and wool coats, options for the rink today.

“Can we not talk about it?” I say.

“That’s also what you do.” Natalie raises an eyebrow.

“What do you think?” I ask, holding up a red Sofa & Kyo coat with a cream turtleneck, dodging any more conversation about the horror that is my love life. “Too bold?”

“Doesn’t Good Day have the final say?” Natalie asks, giving up.

“Oh, right.” My mind’s been so fuzzy, absorbed by the man who will not be named.

I pull the turtleneck over my head and tuck it into my high-waisted dark denim jeans and place the other items back in the bag to bring with me.

There’s a sound like a small horse barreling down the hallway. A streak of gray passes my office. A moment later, a wet nose pokes through the ajar door, and the gray streak manifests into a svelte dog.

“Bailey,” I yell, surprised.

The dog nuzzles Natalie’s neck. She laughs, stroking his short coat with her good hand.

“Leave her alone, boy.” Max appears in the doorway. He’s standing taller and appears more relaxed than when I saw him last weekend. All week, he’s been in touch with me, asking after Natalie and sending funny memes about cooking.

“What are you doing here?” I ask. “I thought I was meeting you at Prospect Park.”

“Aunt Gilli asked me to stop by before we leave.” Max relaxes back on the sofa next to Natalie. She unwraps the mask from her wrist and places it over her eyes.

“Cocktail flu?” Max asks.

Natalie raises her swollen wrist in response.

“And she’s taken painkillers. Again,” I announce, sitting behind my desk.

“Did you take anything with the painkillers?” Max asks her.

Natalie snorts. “No.”

There’s a short pause, then a small smile appears on Max’s lips. “You were funny last weekend during the shoot.”

“Oh.” Natalie scoots to sitting, the eye mask dropping.

“You were talking about being Cyrano de Bergerac, except instead of putting poetry into Catie’s mouth, you were shoveling in recipes,” Max laughs. “It was gibberish.”

Natalie’s face flushes, and she glances at me with worried eyes.

“Sorry,” Natalie says, but I wave her apology off.

“The food was amazing.” Max rubs Bailey between his ears. “Despite the few mishaps.”

Natalie throws an accusing glance my way. I’ve avoided telling her about the near disaster we escaped the previous weekend after she was whisked out of the kitchen by Max.

“There were a few…hiccups,” I say.

“Sometimes, Catie gets nervous in front of the camera,” Natalie hurries to explain, always ready to cover for me. “She’s never filmed anything like that, right? Only in the studio.”

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